One Last Bedtime Story o Sweet and Fluffy Version
by Little Katu-Muffin
Summary: Just a little blurb of a fic about Ginny missing her older brother. Post-OotP, some spoilers. This is the fluffy version of a less pleasant fic.


Intro:  
  
Hello, and thanks for choosing to read this. All normal disclaimers apply (ie, I don't own the characters, etc). That's basically all I have to add right now.  
  
***  
  
Ginny stared through her fingers at the floor. It had been ages since it had all happened. The fight, between Percy and the family. Molly had locked Ginny in her room, not that it did much good, as the raised voices had echoed completely throughout The Burrow.  
  
Ginny missed him. He had always been her favourite brother, though she was always afraid to admit it to her other brothers. She remembered sneaking into his room at night to ask him to read her a bedtime story, in her younger years. He would always read to her the most obscure books, often quite boring, but she could tell by the way he read them that he enjoyed them, and it was more to be around him while he was enjoying himself than to enjoy herself around him. After all, he so rarely got a break from his younger brothers that it was quite worth it to see him happy.  
  
But that was all gone now. Of course, the storytellings had ended years ago, just before Ron's first year at Hogwarts...but there had always been the unspoken bond between them, the knowledge that she could go back if ever she wanted. Now that was gone. The room opposite hers was locked, and mostly empty anyway. She sighed to herself and lifted her head. She brushed her hair out of her face. It was dirty, and hadn't been brushed in a few days. However, it was surprisingly neat, considering. Her mother kept pestering her about it, telling her to brush and wash it, insisting on a trim, and asking her if this was her way of rebelling.  
  
She stood up and approached her bookshelf. She absently ran a finger across the coarse bindings of the books' spines, not really taking in any titles. She'd read them all, anyway. All the Piers Anthony and Douglas Adams and Terry Pratchett her father had bought her ("Fascinating, the worlds Muggles concoct!"), along with her old school books and some other books she'd bought originally just to look cool ("The Compleat Poems of Longfellow", for instance. And even a Dictionary.). But even as she looked at the faded lettering on the spines, she knew in her stomach what she was going to do. She stared at the bookcase for another second, head tilted to one side, just for token value, and then walked purposefully to her bedside, snatched up her wand, and left her room.  
  
"Alohamora," she whispered, and the lock to Percy's old room clicked almost inaudibly. She opened the door and shut it behind her. The room smelled of disuse. The dust on the desk was alone, except for a half-empty pot of ink and some unfinished drafts of an old essay for the Ministry. The bed still had the bedclothes on it, meticulously neat and untouched by anyone since Percy last folded them. His blue-and-white pinstriped pyjamas, the ones all the Weasleys wore (there had been a sale, and Molly bought two pairs for all her children), lay folded perfectly on the nightstand beside the bed. The window still had the curtains drawn, and the only light in the room came from the stifled moonlight shining through the curtains.  
  
She turned to the bookshelf. Percy had left all his books on it, likely because he planned on coming back for them, but never got around to it. Ginny looked at them. The Art of Lacemaking. Nearly 120 Uses For A Broken Wand. How to Effectively Sell Cauldrons To Picky Customers. Ginny reached down and picked out Percy's old favourite, Why Read Fiction, When Documentaries Are So Real? She didn't open it, but instead walked over and stared at the bed. The sheets had last been stroked carefully into place by her older brother's long, meticulous fingers. On the one hand, she didn't want to disturb that. But she had a most pressing desire to crawl into the bed, snuggled under the practical cotton-and-feather comforter, and sleep.  
  
Eventually, emotion won over logic. She reached down and, with great care and reverence, lifted the covers, slid out of her slippers, and crawled into the bed. It was cold, but she found, with great joy, that it still smelled like Percy. She snuggled into the pillows, her book clutched to her heart, and imagined that she was lying next to him again, listening to his matter-of-fact voice wash over her, telling her about the raptures of non-fiction. She imagined the feel of his bony hip, just next to her face, as he sat up against the pillows and read to her until she slept.  
  
She dreamed, eventually, that Percy finished the second chapter and looked down at her. He smiled, obviously grateful for the excuse to really enjoy himself, and lovingly stroked Ginny's head, being quite careful not to catch his fingers in her tangled hair. He lifted her up in his arms and carried her across the way, bringing her into her own room, laying her on the bed, tucking the covers up beneath her chin, and kissed her, softly, on the forehead. That had always been her favourite part. Often times, she would pretend to fall asleep, just so that she could enjoy being tucked in by her older brother. Ginny knew that she was the only who saw that side of Percy, ever. She selfishly hoped she would always be the only one.  
  
She woke up the next morning in her own bed. 


End file.
